The Matarese Circle (42 page)

“Truthfully, Mister Pastor,” continued Scozzi. “I’ve been told that many of my more brothersome friends have been annoying you with questions. I apologize for them.”

“No need to. I’m afraid Crispi’s descriptions included more mundane matters.” Bray smiled with disarming humility. “When people learn what I do, they ask questions. I’m used to it.”

“You’re very understanding.”

“It’s not hard to be. I just wish I were as knowledgeable as so many think I am. Usually I simply try to implement decisions made before I got there.”

“But in those decisions,” said the count, “there is knowledge, is there not?”

“I hope so. Otherwise an awful lot of money’s being thrown away.”

“Blown away with the desert winds, as it were,” clarified
Scozzi. “Why do I think we actually
have
met before, Mister Pastor?”

The sudden question had been considered by Scofield; it was always a possibility and he was prepared for it. “If we had I think I’d remember, but it might have been the American Embassy. Those parties were never as grand as this, but just as crowded.”

“Then you are a fixture on Embassy Row?”

“Hardly a fixture, but sometimes a last-minute guest.” Bray smiled self-deprecatingly. “It seems there are times when my countrymen are as interested in asking me questions as your friends here in Tivoli.”

Scozzi chuckled. “Information is often the road to heroic national stature, Mister Pastor. You are a reluctant hero.”

“Not really. I have to make a living, that’s all.”

“I would not care to negotiate with you,” said Scozzi. “I detect the mind of an experienced bargainer.”

“That’s too bad,” replied Scofield, altering the tone of his voice just enough to signal the Italian’s inner antenna. “I thought we might talk for a bit.”

“Oh?” The count glanced at Antonia. “But we bore the
bella signorina.
”

“Not at all,” said Toni. “I’ve learned more about my friend during the last several minutes than for the past week. But I
am
famished—”

“Say no more,” interrupted Scozzi, as if her hunger were a matter of corporate survival. He raised his hand. In seconds a young, dark-haired man dressed in tails appeared beside him. “My aide will see to your needs, signorina. His name is Paolo and, incidentally, he is a charming dancer. I believe my wife taught him.”

Paolo bowed, avoiding the count’s eyes, and offered his arm to Antonia. She accepted it, stepping forward, her face turned to Scozzi and Bray.

“
Ciao,
” she said, her eyes wishing Scofield good hunting.

“You are to be envied, Mister Pastor,” remarked Count Guillamo Scozzi, watching the receding figure in white. “She
is
adorable. You bought her in Como?”

Bray glanced at the Italian. Scozzi meant exactly what he said. “To be honest with you, I’m not even sure she’s ever been there,” he answered, knowing the double lie was mandatory; the count could make inquiries too easily.
“Actually, a friend in Ar-Riyād gave me a number to call at the lake. She joined me in Nice. From where I’ve never asked.”

“Would you consider, however, asking her about her calendar? Tell her for me the sooner the better. She may reach me through the Paravacini offices in Torino.”

“Turin?”

“Yes, our plants in the north. Agnelli’s Fiat gets far more attention, but I can assure you, Scozzi-Paravacini runs Turin—as well as a great deal of Europe.”

“I never realized that.”

“You didn’t? I thought it was perhaps the basis for your wishing to … ‘talk for a bit,’ I believe you said.”

Scofield drank the last of his champagne, speaking as he took the glass from his lips. “Do you think we might go outside for a minute or two? I have a confidential message for you from a client on—let’s say, the Arabian Gulf. It’s why I’m here tonight.”

Scozzi’s eyes clouded. “A message for me? Naturally, as most of Rome and Torino, I’ve met casually with a number of gentlemen from the area, but none I can recall by name. But, of course, we’ll take a stroll. You intrigue me.” The count started forward, but Bray stopped him with a gesture.

“I’d rather we weren’t seen going out together. Tell me where you’ll be and I’ll show up in twenty minutes.”

“How extraordinary. Very well.” The Italian paused. “Ippolito’s Fountain. Do you know it?”

“I’ll find it.”

“It’s quite a distance. There shouldn’t be anyone around.”

“That’s fine. Twenty minutes.” Scofield nodded. Both turned and walked away in opposite directions through the crowd.

There were no floodlights at the fountain or sounds of disturbance as a man crawled around the rocks and walked silently through the foliage. Bray was taking no chances that Scozzi had stationed aides in the vicinity. If he had, Scofield would have sent a message to the Italian, naming a second, immediate rendezvous.

They were alone—or would be in a matter of minutes. The count was strolling down the path toward the fountain.
Bray doubled back through a weed-filled garden, emerging on the path fifty feet behind Scozzi. He cleared his throat the moment Scozzi reached the waist-high wall of the fountain’s pool. The count turned; there was just enough light from the terraces above for each to see the other. Scofield was bothered by the darkness. Scozzi could have chosen any number of places more convenient, less filled with shadows. Bray did not like shadows.

“Was it necessary to come down this far?” he asked. “I wanted to see you alone, but I hadn’t figured on walking halfway back to Rome.”

“Nor had I, Mr. Pastor, until you made the statement that you did not care to have us seen leaving together. It brought to my mind the obvious. It is, perhaps, not to my advantage to be seen talking in private with you. You are a broker for the sheiks.”

“Why should that bother you?”

“Why did you wish to leave separately?”

Scozzi had a quick mind, bearing out Crispi’s allusion to a Borgia mentality. “A matter of being
too
obvious, I’d say. But if someone wandered down here and saw us, that would also be too obvious. There’s a middle ground, a casual encounter in the gardens, for example.”

“You have the encounter and no one will see us,” said the count. “There is only one entrance to the fountain of Ippolito; it is forty meters behind us. I have an aide standing there. Guillamo Scozzi has been known to stroll with a companion of his choice down—if you will—a primrose path. At such times he does not care to be disturbed.”

“Does my doing what I do call for those precautions?”

The count raised his hand. “Remember, Mr. Pastor. Scozzi-Paravacini deals throughout all Europe and both Americas. We look constantly for new markets, but we do not look for Arab capital. It is highly suspect; barriers are being erected everywhere to prevent its excessive infusion. We would not come to be so scrutinized. Jewish interests in Paris and New York alone could cost us dearly.”

“What I have to say to you has nothing to do with Scozzi-Paravacini,” said Scofield. “It concerns the Scozzi part, not the Paravacini.”

“You allude to a sensitive area, Mr. Pastor. Please be specific.”

“You are the son of Count Alberto Scozzi, aren’t you?”

“It is well known. As are my contributions to the growth of Paravacini Industries. The significance of the corporate conversion to the name of
Scozzi
-Paravacini is, I trust, not lost on you.”

“It isn’t, but even if it were, it doesn’t matter. I’m only a go-between, supposedly the first of several contacts, each further removed from the next. As far as I’m concerned, I ran into you casually at a charity affair in Tivoli. We never had this talk.”

“Your message must, indeed, be dramatic. Who sends it?”

It was Bray’s turn to raise his hand. “Please. As we understand the rules, identities are never specific at the first conference. Only a geographical area and a political equation that involves hypothetical antagonists.”

Scozzi’s eyes narrowed; the lids fell in concentration. “Go on,” he said.

“You’re a count, so I’ll bend the rules a bit. Let’s say there’s a prince living in a sizeable country, a sheikdom, really, on the Gulf. His uncle, the king, is from another era; he’s old and senile but his word is law, just as it was when he led a Bedouin tribe in the desert. He’s squandering millions with bad investments, depleting the sheikdom’s resources, taking too much out of the ground too quickly. This hypothetical prince would like him removed. For everyone’s good. He appeals to the council through the son of Alberto Scozzi, named for the Corsican
padrone,
Guillaume.… That’s the message. Now I’d like to speak for myself.”

“Who
are
you?” asked the Italian, his eyes now wide. “Who
sent
you?”

“Let me finish,” said Bray quickly. He had to get past the initial jolt, jump to a second plateau. “As an observer of this … hypothetical equation, I can tell you it’s reached a crisis. There isn’t a day to lose. The prince needs an answer and, frankly, if I bring it to him, I’ll be a much richer man for it. You, of course, can name the council’s price. And I can tell you that … fifty million, American, is not out of the question.”

“Fifty
million.
”

It worked; the second plateau was reached. Even for a
man like Guillamo Scozzi, the amount was staggering. His arrogant lips were parted in amazement. It was the moment to complicate, to stun again.

“The sum is conditional, of course. It’s a maximum figure that presumes an immediate answer, eliminating subsequent contacts, and delivery of the package within seven days. It won’t be easy. The old man is guarded day and night by
sabathi
—they’re a collection of mad dogs who.…” Scofield paused. “But then, I don’t have to tell you about anything related to Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah, do I? From what I gather, the Corsican drew on him pretty extensively. At any rate, the prince suggests a programmed suicide—”

“
Enough!
” whispered Scozzi. “Who
are
you, Pastor? Is the name to mean something to me? Pastor?
Priest?
Are you a high priest sent to
test
me?” The Italian’s voice rose stridently. “You talk of things buried in the past. How
dare you?
”

“I’m talking about fifty million American dollars. And don’t tell me—or my client—about things buried. His father was buried with his throat slit from chin to collar bone by a maniac sent by the council. Check your records, if you keep them; you’ll find it. My client wants his own back again and he’s willing to pay roughly fifty times what his father’s brother paid.” Bray stopped for a moment and shook his head in disapproval and sudden frustration. “This is crazy! I told him for less than half the amount I could buy him a legitimate revolution, sanctioned by the United Nations. But he wants it
this
way. With you. And I think I know why. He said something to me; I don’t know if it’s part of his message but I’ll deliver it anyway. He said, ‘The way of the Matarese is the only way. They’ll see my faith.’ He wants to join you.”

Guillamo Scozzi recoiled; his legs were pressed against the wall of the fountain, his arms rigidly at his side. “What right have you to say these things to me? You’re insane, a madman! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? Then we’ve got the wrong man. We’ll find the right one; I’ll find him. We were given the words; we know the response.”

“What words?”

“Per nostro.…”
Scofield let his voice trail off, his eyes riveted on Scozzi’s lips in the dim light.

Involuntarily, the lips parted. The Italian was about to utter the third word, complete the phrase that had lived for seventy years in the remote hills of the Porto Vecchio.…

No word came. Instead, Scozzi whispered again, shock replaced by a concern so deeply felt he could barely be heard. “My
God.
You cannot … you
must
not. Where have you
come
from? What have you been
told?
”

“Just enough to know I’ve found the right man. One of them, at any rate. Do we deal?”

“Do not presume, Mr. Pastor! Or whatever your name is.” There was fury now in the Italian’s voice.

“Pastor’ll do. All right, I’ve got my answer. You pass. I’ll tell my client.” Bray turned.

“
Alto!
”

“
Perchè? Che cosa?
” Scofield spoke over his shoulder without moving.

“Your Italian is very quick, very fluent.”

“So are several other languages. It helps when you travel a lot. I travel a lot. What do you want?”

“You will stay here until I say you may leave.”

“Really?” said Scofield, turning to face Scozzi again. “What’s the point? I’ve got my answer.”

“You’ll do as I tell you. I have only to raise my voice and an aide will be beside you, blocking any departure you may consider.”

Bray tried to understand. This powerful
consigliere
could deny everything—he had, after all, said nothing—and have a strange American followed. Or he could call for help; or he might simply walk away himself and send armed men to find him. He could do any of these things—he
was
part of the Matarese; the admission was in his eyes—but he chose to do none of them.

Then Scofield thought he did understand. Guillamo Scozzi, the quick-thinking industrial pirate with the Borgia mentality, was not sure what he should do. He was caught in a dilemma that suddenly had overwhelmed him. It had all happened too fast, he was not prepared to make a decision. So he made none.

Which meant that there was someone else—someone nearby, accessible—who
could.

Someone at Villa d’Este that night.

“Does this mean that you’re reconsidering?” asked Bray.

“It means
nothing!
”

“Then why should I stay? I don’t think you should give orders to me, I’m not one of your Praetorians. We don’t deal; it’s as simple as that.”

“It is
not
that simple!” Scozzi’s voice rose again, fear more pronounced than anger now.

“I say it is, and I say the hell with it,” said Scofield, turning again. It was important that the Italian summon his unseen guard. Very important.